(no subject)
hi i haven't written anything in a long time but i think it was about time this got finished. this is, honestly, a fic about my feelings~, which there are a fucking lot of, and i can't promise that you will find anything in here besides that -- a goddamn titanic's downfall iceberg sized portion of feelings. probably two people will care, and i am one of them (the less sluttier of the two), but i had to get it off my chest and off into the cyber cosmos (but if you humor me i'll give you a cyber kiss). here you go, cosmos.
title: burst & bloom
characters: emotion
summary: a year of recap
1.
For a summer they burst and bloom.
They are focused, fire-tight and unstoppable; forces not men. They deny the world that tells them “you are not going anywhere” and “you are not hot-blooded or passionate like the others” and “you will inevitably fail”. They wear blinders. They shut out.
Thomas imagines folding inside himself neatly, cornering the energy to the very core of him. He thinks maybe it’s some sort of yoga or witchcraft, this sport they’ve tied around their wrists; it sinks in through his skin but he cannot put his arms around it.
On June 13th, in the 68th minute Thomas feels the game supernova him. Somehow, the ball finds its way to his feet, his feet find their way to the net, and the rest is blinding white light-a static in his ears so loud he can barely hear it-hands, fingers, bodies piling. On June 13th Thomas feels the number 13 with his entire fucking existence.
Miroslav presses his smile against his shoulder now, and then again in the hotel (those thin, thin arms like branch limbs, like slivers of glass so fine Thomas wonders how he doesn’t crack). “Look at you, champ.”
“Just one goal, Miro,” he replies.
“In the first game? This is something to celebrate.”
He never finds out how though, because at that moment Lukas is in with the camera-Bastian close behind-and they are congratulating him with their fists, pulling him around, pinching his cheeks. Miro looks on, leaning against the doorframe and laughing softly.
2.
His bedsheets. His pillows. His sneakers. His headband. His armband. His walls. His jersey. His socks. His plate. His cup. His stickers. His toy cars. His shorts. His gloves. His magazines. His hands. His heart. Bayern Munich.
3.
When they come home-no. When they start playing again. When the season flits and dips and rises again: a dry spell and finally, a goal against Frankfurt. Thomas pulls the focus down like a meteor shower, like an arrow straight vertically through his middle, and thanks his god for it. A surge of blood and bodies rushing him.
Later, he will watch the tape of it in private and criticize every mistake, regardless of size-a rare sort of seriousness that only dawns on him when his club is in question, when his country is in question. For now, though, bodies from every side, a feeling like being high.
Van Gaal throws his hands up.
From the bench Miro smiles, but Thomas doesn’t see.
4.
Every time Philipp puts on the armband he does it in private, in front of the mirror, and thinks of Micha.
“I am not a bad person,” he says. “I deserve this.”
(He wonders how Muller feels with his number on his back. He wonders if he’s horrible for wondering.)
It doesn’t envelop the memory of Ballack watching their win against Argentina, nor the argument they had afterward, nor the hotel drama. It doesn’t change the months of captaincy drama, or the articles in the news, or the uncertainty with Low.
But it’s some sort of comfort to repeat anyway, the band like a rosary, slipping between his fingers.
(For the record, Muller is too awestruck to feel any guilt. Philipp asks.
“I think… I’m just very proud.”
“You have every right to be, but-” But what? What do you say to that? He feels awful now, again, for bringing it up.
Muller is silent for a long time, which is uncharacteristic and slightly unnerving.
Finally: “Call him.”)
5.
Miro scores in January. Mark leaves. Philipp’s arm gets heavier.
There is this little team from Dortmund scaling the table and Thomas thinks that the moment he blinks the league is going to be snatched up. They are young, and sharp, and unbelievably talented. They are the future of the national team and everyone knows it; Low knows it.
Sometimes it is difficult to separate his club from his country. It is difficult not to think, “we are losing the league” without following it up with “we are losing Arne and Miro”. Soon enough Hummels will slide into defense full time and there will no longer be a Polish strikership and Philipp Lahm will be the oldest person on the pitch. Philipp Lahm. If that’s not heartbreaking, he thinks, then what is?
6.
March. They are knocked out of the Champions League by Inter Milan. It is almost as bad as Spain, except this time around no one can say the other team didn’t deserve it.
7.
They are sitting around in a hotel bed and Miro is talking about Luan and Noah. He is talking to Luan and Noah, Thomas realizes dimly through a daydream. He sounds very far away, and hushed-like he’s telling secrets. They must love that, he thinks. Miroslav Klose: dad.
There is something sheet-thin about the thought, like if he were to hold it up to the light Thomas would be able to see right through. He thinks, maybe Miro is like this, too. He thinks he is sick of thinking.
“Are you leaving?” he asks, breaking the silence.
Miro looks at him, lies back against the headboard. Finally, he says, “I’m staying right here.”
Out of all the people in the world, here is one he doesn’t want to push. He does, anyway.
“Munich. Are you leaving Munich?”
“Won’t we all, at some point?”
No, Thomas thinks, and realizes he’s angry. His bedsheets, his posters, his heart. He grabs Miro by the wrist and immediately regrets it (not enough to let go).
“Please answer,” he says, forcing eye contact.
Miro looks at him briefly, before directing his gaze straight ahead. “What else is there for me to do,” he replies, and it’s like he’s telling secrets again.
There aren’t enough words in the world, so Thomas lets go and puts the tip of his tongue between his teeth and bites down so hard there is little else to focus on.
8.
Manuel Neuer carries his team to the Champions League semifinals like a parting gift. He is nothing but honest when he says that Schalke has been his home for all of his life and will continue to be, or when he says that he will protect Bayern’s goal with every atom he possesses. From one side, he is called a traitor and the other seems to have tattooed “KOAN NEUER” onto their bodies.
When Schalke wins the DFB Pokal, a fan slaps him across the face.
He calls Philipp that night, unable to stomach a celebration, but neither of them know what to say.
9.
A memory:
Throngs of people and signs in the streets, their hands reaching out-you’d think the Queen were here. Thomas is still not used to it, and he feels dazed with a pen in hand, can’t even find the time to throw a helpless glance around while signing his name to the point where it doesn’t even look like a name anymore. It isn’t like winning the league and parading around Munich with easy spirits (though to be fair, there is nothing quite like that)-it is like going to battle.
Everywhere he hears the same exact words, “come back as heroes”.
A little boy in his father’s arms looks at him with huge eyes, wearing a Munchen jersey, and Thomas thinks that his own heart will swell so large there won’t be any room left in his chest for it.
At the airport he pulls Lisa’s tiny body to his chest and tries to keep very still. He memorizes her, again and again and again, no matter where they are or how well he can recite the curves of her-he memorizes her, anyway.
“You’re already a hero,” she says, pulling back to touch his face.
He laughs it off and kisses her nose and tells her he’ll see her soon, but knows that, in typical Lisa-fashion, she has read his mind.
A memory:
Red carded, watching the game with his hands steepled against his face. When the whistle blows security won’t let him on the field to comfort his teammates, but he can see Bastian Schweinsteiger crying from where he is standing, and for the first time in a long time Thomas feels homesickness creep in-a feeling like being hit in the chest-a feeling like there isn’t enough air in the world to keep his knees from shaking.
10.
They have a dinner, but no one really wants to eat. There is never an appropriate amount of alcohol for nights like this. Mario Gomez forks at his entree guiltily until Miro puts an arm around him and says something in his ear that makes him laugh. Toni bites his nails. Philipp tries to look happier than he is.
Everyone is trying very hard, Thomas thinks. Everything is forgiven. So it goes. Football and melancholy around their wrists now. He steps outside for brief snatches of time, but later he will wish he hadn’t.
Miro leaves for Italy the next day and Thomas turns off his phone to keep from checking.
11.
When Philipp Lahm is very young nobody asks him what he wants to be when he grows up because it is so obvious.
He is brilliant on the field, like a bird of prey, commanding attention far larger than himself. Watching him is like watching a magic trick, his trainers and managers say-if you blink you will miss it. His family is so proud. They shake him by the shoulders and kiss praises into his ears and say that one day, if he is determined enough, and honest, he will become the captain of his club as well as the national team.
In 2008, when Barcelona and Manchester beg for him, he does not go out of some misguided mixture of loyalty and trust.
The next year he is given the biggest fine in Bayern Munich history for his public criticism of the club structure-for addressing a problem that has been privately ignored for years.
He calls home and asks his father what a bigger man would have done.
In 2010 he is the only player to play every minute in the World Cup qualifiers, and becomes the youngest player to captain his team for the tournament. Not for a minute does he think he is better, but it is no exaggeration to say that he is just as good as the boots he’s filling.
Amidst the drama that follows he calls home with his eyes closed and his father says, “I’m proud of you.”
12.
Michael Ballack retires and a collective breath is let out. Some find they hadn’t realized they were holding it.
After he releases a statement, he notices three missed calls from Philipp Lahm, and doesn’t return any of them.
13.
The summer of Euro qualifiers. Lukas falls from grace. Miro and Bastian are injured for the qualifiers. Arne is inches away from retirement.
Thomas feels like his family is breaking up with him until one day, at practice watching Andre Schurrle and Lewis Holtby kick the ball around-their eagerness apparent in their voices-Holger slides into the spot next to him. He scans the field for a moment to keep up appearances, pretends he’s just hanging around, unconcerned in his usual way, brows furrowed. Thomas waits.
“You’re scowling a lot these days, Muller. It’s fucking creepy.”
“You’re telling me that I scowl too much.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Holger rolls his eyes. “The irony. I don’t want to have to try harder than I already do, so back off.”
Thomas laughs softly, shaking his head.
“Hey,” Holger starts again, after a moment. “Look how fucking excited they are. Like being here is the best thing that’s ever happened in the history of the world. How could we not win everything for the next ten years, with dorks like them running around-all fired up and eager to please.”
He’s nice, Thomas thinks for the thousandth time in his life. Secretly nice.
“So stop fucking sulking, okay?” he slaps Thomas’s thigh and stands up. “Your hair looks like shit when you sulk.”
Thomas snorts, flings his water bottle cap at his head.
“Hey Badstuber.”
Holger gives him an expectant look, like he’s taking up all of his precious time.
“We were that excited once, right?”
“Don’t be an idiot. We’re still that excited, we just look fucking cooler doing it.”
It’s taken a while, but finally it seems like the breath in Thomas’s chest is settling right.
title: burst & bloom
characters: emotion
summary: a year of recap
1.
For a summer they burst and bloom.
They are focused, fire-tight and unstoppable; forces not men. They deny the world that tells them “you are not going anywhere” and “you are not hot-blooded or passionate like the others” and “you will inevitably fail”. They wear blinders. They shut out.
Thomas imagines folding inside himself neatly, cornering the energy to the very core of him. He thinks maybe it’s some sort of yoga or witchcraft, this sport they’ve tied around their wrists; it sinks in through his skin but he cannot put his arms around it.
On June 13th, in the 68th minute Thomas feels the game supernova him. Somehow, the ball finds its way to his feet, his feet find their way to the net, and the rest is blinding white light-a static in his ears so loud he can barely hear it-hands, fingers, bodies piling. On June 13th Thomas feels the number 13 with his entire fucking existence.
Miroslav presses his smile against his shoulder now, and then again in the hotel (those thin, thin arms like branch limbs, like slivers of glass so fine Thomas wonders how he doesn’t crack). “Look at you, champ.”
“Just one goal, Miro,” he replies.
“In the first game? This is something to celebrate.”
He never finds out how though, because at that moment Lukas is in with the camera-Bastian close behind-and they are congratulating him with their fists, pulling him around, pinching his cheeks. Miro looks on, leaning against the doorframe and laughing softly.
2.
His bedsheets. His pillows. His sneakers. His headband. His armband. His walls. His jersey. His socks. His plate. His cup. His stickers. His toy cars. His shorts. His gloves. His magazines. His hands. His heart. Bayern Munich.
3.
When they come home-no. When they start playing again. When the season flits and dips and rises again: a dry spell and finally, a goal against Frankfurt. Thomas pulls the focus down like a meteor shower, like an arrow straight vertically through his middle, and thanks his god for it. A surge of blood and bodies rushing him.
Later, he will watch the tape of it in private and criticize every mistake, regardless of size-a rare sort of seriousness that only dawns on him when his club is in question, when his country is in question. For now, though, bodies from every side, a feeling like being high.
Van Gaal throws his hands up.
From the bench Miro smiles, but Thomas doesn’t see.
4.
Every time Philipp puts on the armband he does it in private, in front of the mirror, and thinks of Micha.
“I am not a bad person,” he says. “I deserve this.”
(He wonders how Muller feels with his number on his back. He wonders if he’s horrible for wondering.)
It doesn’t envelop the memory of Ballack watching their win against Argentina, nor the argument they had afterward, nor the hotel drama. It doesn’t change the months of captaincy drama, or the articles in the news, or the uncertainty with Low.
But it’s some sort of comfort to repeat anyway, the band like a rosary, slipping between his fingers.
(For the record, Muller is too awestruck to feel any guilt. Philipp asks.
“I think… I’m just very proud.”
“You have every right to be, but-” But what? What do you say to that? He feels awful now, again, for bringing it up.
Muller is silent for a long time, which is uncharacteristic and slightly unnerving.
Finally: “Call him.”)
5.
Miro scores in January. Mark leaves. Philipp’s arm gets heavier.
There is this little team from Dortmund scaling the table and Thomas thinks that the moment he blinks the league is going to be snatched up. They are young, and sharp, and unbelievably talented. They are the future of the national team and everyone knows it; Low knows it.
Sometimes it is difficult to separate his club from his country. It is difficult not to think, “we are losing the league” without following it up with “we are losing Arne and Miro”. Soon enough Hummels will slide into defense full time and there will no longer be a Polish strikership and Philipp Lahm will be the oldest person on the pitch. Philipp Lahm. If that’s not heartbreaking, he thinks, then what is?
6.
March. They are knocked out of the Champions League by Inter Milan. It is almost as bad as Spain, except this time around no one can say the other team didn’t deserve it.
7.
They are sitting around in a hotel bed and Miro is talking about Luan and Noah. He is talking to Luan and Noah, Thomas realizes dimly through a daydream. He sounds very far away, and hushed-like he’s telling secrets. They must love that, he thinks. Miroslav Klose: dad.
There is something sheet-thin about the thought, like if he were to hold it up to the light Thomas would be able to see right through. He thinks, maybe Miro is like this, too. He thinks he is sick of thinking.
“Are you leaving?” he asks, breaking the silence.
Miro looks at him, lies back against the headboard. Finally, he says, “I’m staying right here.”
Out of all the people in the world, here is one he doesn’t want to push. He does, anyway.
“Munich. Are you leaving Munich?”
“Won’t we all, at some point?”
No, Thomas thinks, and realizes he’s angry. His bedsheets, his posters, his heart. He grabs Miro by the wrist and immediately regrets it (not enough to let go).
“Please answer,” he says, forcing eye contact.
Miro looks at him briefly, before directing his gaze straight ahead. “What else is there for me to do,” he replies, and it’s like he’s telling secrets again.
There aren’t enough words in the world, so Thomas lets go and puts the tip of his tongue between his teeth and bites down so hard there is little else to focus on.
8.
Manuel Neuer carries his team to the Champions League semifinals like a parting gift. He is nothing but honest when he says that Schalke has been his home for all of his life and will continue to be, or when he says that he will protect Bayern’s goal with every atom he possesses. From one side, he is called a traitor and the other seems to have tattooed “KOAN NEUER” onto their bodies.
When Schalke wins the DFB Pokal, a fan slaps him across the face.
He calls Philipp that night, unable to stomach a celebration, but neither of them know what to say.
9.
A memory:
Throngs of people and signs in the streets, their hands reaching out-you’d think the Queen were here. Thomas is still not used to it, and he feels dazed with a pen in hand, can’t even find the time to throw a helpless glance around while signing his name to the point where it doesn’t even look like a name anymore. It isn’t like winning the league and parading around Munich with easy spirits (though to be fair, there is nothing quite like that)-it is like going to battle.
Everywhere he hears the same exact words, “come back as heroes”.
A little boy in his father’s arms looks at him with huge eyes, wearing a Munchen jersey, and Thomas thinks that his own heart will swell so large there won’t be any room left in his chest for it.
At the airport he pulls Lisa’s tiny body to his chest and tries to keep very still. He memorizes her, again and again and again, no matter where they are or how well he can recite the curves of her-he memorizes her, anyway.
“You’re already a hero,” she says, pulling back to touch his face.
He laughs it off and kisses her nose and tells her he’ll see her soon, but knows that, in typical Lisa-fashion, she has read his mind.
A memory:
Red carded, watching the game with his hands steepled against his face. When the whistle blows security won’t let him on the field to comfort his teammates, but he can see Bastian Schweinsteiger crying from where he is standing, and for the first time in a long time Thomas feels homesickness creep in-a feeling like being hit in the chest-a feeling like there isn’t enough air in the world to keep his knees from shaking.
10.
They have a dinner, but no one really wants to eat. There is never an appropriate amount of alcohol for nights like this. Mario Gomez forks at his entree guiltily until Miro puts an arm around him and says something in his ear that makes him laugh. Toni bites his nails. Philipp tries to look happier than he is.
Everyone is trying very hard, Thomas thinks. Everything is forgiven. So it goes. Football and melancholy around their wrists now. He steps outside for brief snatches of time, but later he will wish he hadn’t.
Miro leaves for Italy the next day and Thomas turns off his phone to keep from checking.
11.
When Philipp Lahm is very young nobody asks him what he wants to be when he grows up because it is so obvious.
He is brilliant on the field, like a bird of prey, commanding attention far larger than himself. Watching him is like watching a magic trick, his trainers and managers say-if you blink you will miss it. His family is so proud. They shake him by the shoulders and kiss praises into his ears and say that one day, if he is determined enough, and honest, he will become the captain of his club as well as the national team.
In 2008, when Barcelona and Manchester beg for him, he does not go out of some misguided mixture of loyalty and trust.
The next year he is given the biggest fine in Bayern Munich history for his public criticism of the club structure-for addressing a problem that has been privately ignored for years.
He calls home and asks his father what a bigger man would have done.
In 2010 he is the only player to play every minute in the World Cup qualifiers, and becomes the youngest player to captain his team for the tournament. Not for a minute does he think he is better, but it is no exaggeration to say that he is just as good as the boots he’s filling.
Amidst the drama that follows he calls home with his eyes closed and his father says, “I’m proud of you.”
12.
Michael Ballack retires and a collective breath is let out. Some find they hadn’t realized they were holding it.
After he releases a statement, he notices three missed calls from Philipp Lahm, and doesn’t return any of them.
13.
The summer of Euro qualifiers. Lukas falls from grace. Miro and Bastian are injured for the qualifiers. Arne is inches away from retirement.
Thomas feels like his family is breaking up with him until one day, at practice watching Andre Schurrle and Lewis Holtby kick the ball around-their eagerness apparent in their voices-Holger slides into the spot next to him. He scans the field for a moment to keep up appearances, pretends he’s just hanging around, unconcerned in his usual way, brows furrowed. Thomas waits.
“You’re scowling a lot these days, Muller. It’s fucking creepy.”
“You’re telling me that I scowl too much.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Holger rolls his eyes. “The irony. I don’t want to have to try harder than I already do, so back off.”
Thomas laughs softly, shaking his head.
“Hey,” Holger starts again, after a moment. “Look how fucking excited they are. Like being here is the best thing that’s ever happened in the history of the world. How could we not win everything for the next ten years, with dorks like them running around-all fired up and eager to please.”
He’s nice, Thomas thinks for the thousandth time in his life. Secretly nice.
“So stop fucking sulking, okay?” he slaps Thomas’s thigh and stands up. “Your hair looks like shit when you sulk.”
Thomas snorts, flings his water bottle cap at his head.
“Hey Badstuber.”
Holger gives him an expectant look, like he’s taking up all of his precious time.
“We were that excited once, right?”
“Don’t be an idiot. We’re still that excited, we just look fucking cooler doing it.”
It’s taken a while, but finally it seems like the breath in Thomas’s chest is settling right.